


scw1 - forgiveness/reconciliation

by bonebo



Series: Shimadacest Week '17 [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, There is cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: When they meet again, it's on far less hostile territory.The market is bustling quietly, patrons browsing the stalls in search of gifts or treats for the holiday; the atmosphere is not overstimulating, but just busy enough that Hanzo can be comfortably inconspicuous as he leans against an alley wall. His dark eyes flick up occasionally, watching the people pass in front of him—scanning for weapons or threats subconsciously, because some old habits do not die—but he finds that the longer he stands here, the more he feels like there are eyes staring back, watching him.Waiting, as he is waiting.





	

When they meet again, it's on far less hostile territory.

The market is bustling quietly, patrons browsing the stalls in search of gifts or treats for the holiday; the atmosphere is not overstimulating, but just busy enough that Hanzo can be comfortably inconspicuous as he leans against an alley wall. His dark eyes flick up occasionally, watching the people pass in front of him—scanning for weapons or threats subconsciously, because some old habits do not die—but he finds that the longer he stands here, the more he feels like there are eyes staring back, watching him.

Waiting, as he is waiting.

He adjusts his stance, and shifts the boxed cake hanging from his fingers to his other hand, huffing out a sigh of impatience. He should've known this was a foolish idea; what had he been thinking, agreeing to it in the first place? He should've just torn up the letter with the proposition and tossed it into the trash, left it there to rot with the rest of his memories of—

“Have you been waiting long, brother?”

Hanzo looks over sharply at the voice, and the sight is enough to steal his breath—it's Genji, but—whole? Unharmed? Standing before him in a grey sweater and dark jeans, orange scarf pillowed high around his neck, his messy green hair caught in a beanie and looking like he walked right out of Hanzo's dreams very much a human—

His heart caught in his throat, Hanzo takes a step closer, eyes wide and disbelieving; but then Genji shakes his shaggy green bangs out of the way, gives him a small smile with mismatched lips. Hanzo halts at the scars that stare back at him, tangible proof of his biggest failure, and reality comes crashing down around him, as suffocating as the snow beneath his boots.

Genji's smile fades as quickly as it had come, his gaze cutting away; and Hanzo hates himself for knowing he's the cause of the hurt that dashes through his brother's eyes.

“...no,” he finally manages, internally scrambling to collect his scattered pieces again, fit everything back into the unyielding mold he's made for himself. Genji raises a patchy brow, and Hanzo clears his throat before clarifying, “I have not been waiting long.”

Genji crosses his arms, and Hanzo notes the dark gloves on his brother's hands—like he's gone out of his way to cover up as much of his metallic parts as he can. After Genji's declaration the last time they'd met— _“I have accepted who I am”_ , and Hanzo had never been more jealous of his brother, his inner peace, than in that moment—he finds himself wondering if it's purely for his sake. The thought leaves him equally touched and uneasy.

“Good.” Genji's voice is brighter without the mask, Hanzo realizes, more human; closer to the brother he remembers from his youth. A faint smirk pulls at scarred lips as Genji adds, “I was afraid you would be cold, with your...new hairstyle.”

Hanzo straightens, feeling the tips of his ears burn. “And who are you to talk of hairstyles, when your own is blinding?”

It comes out harsher than he realizes, snappier than he wants—but Genji just laughs, like he's amused by it all, like he's impervious to Hanzo's ill temper. He always has been.

“I am glad to see that your new look has not changed you, Hanzo,” he says lightly, coming closer to where his brother stands; head tilted as he surveys Hanzo up close, amber eyes as bright and curious as ever. There's tiny wrinkles around the corners of them now, Hanzo notes—under all the scarring, signs of Genji's age. A hint of how he would look if nothing had happened: if he hadn't been a _fool_ , if he'd only been wiser, if he'd been stronger, been braver—

Genji prods gently at the piercing on Hanzo's bridge with a coo of, “Oh, what is _this_?”, and the tension snaps—Hanzo's moving before he knows it, grabbing Genji's wrist and yanking his hand away, jerking the arm attached down until he meets resistance and abruptly comes back to himself. For a moment they're both silent, staring at each other; the smile is gone from Genji's face, and Hanzo swallows down the pounding in his throat. As tight as his grip on Genji's wrist is, he can't feel his brother's heartbeat.

“...how can you do it?”

Genji's brows furrow at the question. Hanzo drops his wrist like it's scalded him, turns his head away; fixes his gaze on the ground, Genji's footprints in the snow. The dots of his cleats. He'd always have those tracks following him—proof of what he'd been forced to become, dogging after him for the rest of his life.

“Hanzo?”

“How can you just—be this way? Act like...like nothing happened?” Hanzo finally snaps his gaze up, fixes it on Genji's face; tries to stare into his brother's eyes to avoid looking at the rest of his face, at the skin _he_ marred, the expressions _he_ ruined. He fights to keep his voice steady. “You show up and—and...and try to make me feel like I did not ruin you, like I deserve to bear witness to you after—”

“Hanzo,” Genji tries again, more gently this time, his hand raised; but Hanzo shakes his head, presses forward, words he's been sitting on for years tumbling from his lips in a frenzied rush.

“You appear to me out of nowhere, spare my life when I took yours, say you have forgiven me—how? How can you look at me and feel anything but repulsion, anger, a need for revenge?” Hanzo pauses long enough to draw in a breath, his heart aching.

“How can _you_ forgive me for what I have done, when _I_ —”

Genji's hand lays over his mouth suddenly, and Hanzo halts; stares at the unreadable expression on Genji's face, then closes his eyes and just breathes against the soft fabric of his brother's glove, willing his heart to slow. After a moment Genji pulls his hand away and lets it move to Hanzo's cheek instead, cupping the strong jaw in his palm.

“Anija.” The title rolls off Genji's tongue like it's natural, and Hanzo opens his eyes again, pained at the show of familiarity that he doesn't deserve. Genji's smile is faint, but warm; eyes slowly roving over Hanzo's face like he wants to memorize it. “I love you.”

Hanzo chokes—shakes his head, tries to duck away, but Genji is insistent. He snorts in amusement, moves his hand to gently comb his fingers through Hanzo's hair.

“I do,” he insists, voice soft. His arm winds around Hanzo's waist, pressing them snugly together; Hanzo freezes, then forces himself to relax into the contact, swallowing the lump in his throat. Genji's smile turns dazzling, and he wraps himself around Hanzo to give him a squeeze.

“I'm so proud of you.”

Hanzo feels his heart all but stop at the words—buries his face into the crook of Genji's neck, in the soft orange scarf, lamenting the loss of his brother's scent but revelling in the closeness. He feels his eyes start to sting, and closes them tightly to ward the feeling away. The unyielding mold is starting to crack, and he can’t allow that to happen.

Not here. Not now.

Genji lets the hug linger for a few more heartbeats, then slowly steps back. He keeps them close, keeps his arms where they are, holding Hanzo so he can't get away.

Hanzo's eyes fix on him, and Genji pretends he doesn't notice how wetly they shine.

“You know I forgive you,” he continues. “But this...” Genji runs his gloved fingertips lightly through the shaved side of Hanzo's head, pressure barely there enough to be felt, and Hanzo finds himself leaning into the touch with another marvel at how his brother's body can at once be so deadly and still so gentle. He wonders, fleetingly, where else that tenderness extends to.

“...this is about forgiving yourself, Hanzo.”

For a moment, they're both quiet—Genji hopeful, Hanzo less so. After a moment of silent consideration he looks down at the box hanging from his fingers, and then glances back up to meet his brother's eyes.

“...have you eaten, yet?” he asks, and pushes through the embarrassment he feels to continue in a rush, “The cake—I will not be able to finish it by myself. And it is strawberry. You used to like strawberry.”

He feels like a fool for telling his half-cyborg brother about the foods he used to eat, what he used to enjoy; for the unspoken _used to, before I killed you_ , that hangs between them. But instead of the bitterness or confusion he expects to be met with, Genji perks up, a smile crossing what remains of his lips as he nods agreeably.

“I would love some, brother,” he says, his voice light and amiable—so much more human without the mask, and Hanzo's infinitely grateful for it.


End file.
